


Turnabout

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Series: Christmas Cookies [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Holiday, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: Greg is full of mischief, and Mycroft holds his own.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Christmas Cookies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1231004
Comments: 25
Kudos: 101
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Turnabout

The snow was still softly falling as Mycroft and Greg closed the door to 221B, stepping out into the cold. The ground had gained a thick pillowy cover of white, and the street lamp shined down on them from above. Greg was instantly struck by the way Mycroft looked in the moonlight. The warm glow caught on his hair, making little snowflakes caught in his curls sparkle. He looked like a picture out of a storybook as they stood waiting for the car to arrive. His sharp woolen overcoat was buttoned just so, and his festive red scarf was arranged tidily around his neck. The sturdy umbrella was hooked over his arm, steadied by his beautiful hands, encased neatly in brand new black leather gloves that Greg had gifted him yesterday - an early present. 

Greg was still warm inside from the wine he’d had, helped along by generous serving of Mrs. Hudson’s dangerous concoction she’d put together in the punch bowl. The sound of Sherlock’s violin playing carols for Rosie was still humming in his brain and everything was right in the world on this Christmas eve.

And then...a wretched, rotten thought crept into his brain as he saw the snow gathered along the railing. He trailed his finger idly through it, making a little pathway, and noted how it stuck together so nicely. The weather was just on that magical precipice between freezing and melting, where snow happened, but begrudgingly. 

Perfect packing snow. 

Greg gathered up a bit in his palm, and watched the way it scrunched together between his fingers, melting and then refreezing in a delightfully solid shape. He just knew this was the worst idea. But he couldn’t help himself.

He took aim, then lovingly lobbed a snowball directly at the back of Mycroft’s head, hitting him squarely. The squawk Mycroft emitted was musical to Greg’s ears, and he laughed in delight as Mycroft scooped up a handful of his own and returned fire. It smacked Greg in the ear - impeccable aim, his Mycroft had. Greg molded one more, and before he could fire back, Mycroft had scooped up another palmful of snow and popped open his umbrella, holding it in front of him like a shield. 

“You’ve had your fun, now, Darling. Don’t you think it’s time to call a cease fire? You won’t win this.”

“Sweetheart, I know how much you like a challenge. You wouldn’t respect me if I gave up now. Gotta make you proud of me!” 

Greg inched closer, stepping around sideways, looking for an opportunity. Unlike Mycroft, he wasn’t wearing gloves. The heat from his hands was rapidly leeching away, and the dripping snow from his ear was starting to sneak under his shirt collar. It tickled but he wouldn’t be distracted. 

“And what if I promised to make it worth your while?”

The tone in his voice was promising. Greg hesitated a touch. 

“What are the terms?”

“I shall make those cinnamon rolls you like for breakfast,” Mycroft answered, hopeful to avoid more snow in his hair. 

“Tempting,” Greg said, teasingly. “But what if I want something now?” he asked, as Mycroft began to lower his umbrella, easing himself back into view. 

“As long as it’s not more snow, I’ll entertain a suggestion,” Mycroft answered warily. 

“Alright, alright. Cease fire,” Greg said, stepping closer and letting the snowball fall from his hands. 

Mycroft closed his umbrella and returned it to his arm, ignoring the twitching curtains from above them in the 221B sitting room. 

Greg moved into his space and slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist, drawing them chest to chest, and hugged him tight. He raised a hand and brushed off the back of Mycroft’s head, then pulled him close into a warm, slow kiss, unhurried and full of love. 

They took a step backward as Greg pressed Mycroft’s back up against the streetlight to kiss him again, still struck by how beautiful he looked in this light, with the snow falling down, catching on his eyelashes. 

“Happy Christmas, Sweetheart,” he said reverently. 

“Happy Christmas, Treasure,” Mycroft said as he tucked a handful of snow down the back of Greg’s shirt collar. 

The sound of Greg’s indignant screeching was the best Christmas present Mycroft could hope for.


End file.
